It’s been six months since the events in London…since Jack Bauer saved the world once again from those who wish to do her harm. But none of that matters in this moment.
What does matter, is that Jack is being held captive in a prison somewhere deep within the bowels of Russia itself. Moscow, he assumes; although there’s no certainty in that – just a hunch.
It’s been months since Jack’s smelled the sweet, scent-filled air of the outside world…of freedom. Months since he’s heard his native English spoken by anyone other than by himself. Months since he’s been free of the ten-by-ten foot world that he has existed in since arriving here.
Wherever “here” might be.
His cell is small, a little bit damp, and a little bit cold. The walls are built out of that kind of concrete that’s nondescript, other than the fact that it’s hard, cold, and almost colorless in appearance. There’s a small cot in the corner of the cell, a drain in the middle of the cell for bowel relief, and an opening in the middle of the cell door (that’s made of steel bars – think Alcatraz) through which daily nourishment is delivered. A single recessed light provides enough illumination to see a few feet in every direction, but that’s about the extent of it. It’s just dark enough to potentially drive a person insane after a short while, and certainly dark enough for the mind play tricks on you and make you see things that aren’t there, lurking in the enormous shadows cast by the dying light.